


Maniacal

by wasted (orphan_account)



Category: DCU, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, F/M, Maniax
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-05-08 04:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5484197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/wasted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My wish is that you may be loved to the point of madness."</p><p>♦ ♦ ♦ ♦</p><p>CAUTION: STARK RAVING MANIAX ONLY</p><p>Harleen 'Q' Quinzel thought she had her life sorted out. She'd finish her psychology course, and then take the psychiatric internship at Arkham Asylum and move on from there.</p><p> (Of course, that was until she killed three people. . .)</p><p>Q learns to expect the unexpected, especially when she gets convicted of multiple homicide and shipped off to spend the rest of her days in Arkham Asylum, where she meets a certain deranged ginger kid named Jerome Valeska and is forced to join his merry band of 'Maniax'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. isn't it supposed to hurt you and not me?

**Author's Note:**

> i really really really suck at writing summaries. just trust me that this is much better than the summary makes it out to be. atleast, i hope it is.

“Har-”

“Call me Q.” The blonde interrupted, twisting her neck around to peer at the man who was holding her arms behind her back. It was an incredibly uncomfortable position, and Q was constantly squirming as they walked.

“Q,” Detective Jim Gordon repeated awkwardly, clearing his throat, “you’re under arrest f-”

“No - wait. Let me guess.” Q interrupted again, grinning broadly with eagerness and mischief in her eyes. She tilted her head as if she was thinking.

She heard Gordon let out a frustrated sigh from behind her. The cuffs were digging into her wrists, and creating sickly squelching noises as they slid in the blood that coated her hands.

“It’s about those bodies, ain’t it?” Q finally said, nodding her head slowly in defeat. She sighed dramatically, looking up at the sky. “That’s just a shot in the dark, though. This could be happening because of _anything_.”

“You’re being convicted of multiple homicide.”

Silence fell between the two, and Q forcibly spun around to watch the detective with expectancy. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me?” She asked, then burst into a short fit of giggles.  When he simply remained expressionless, she pouted.

“I’m bein’ shipped off to Arkham, aren’t I?” Q questioned, never taking her eyes off Gordon’s face.

“Stop talking,” He ordered, roughly turning her around again and tightening his grip on her arm. Q exhaled exasperatedly, pursing her lips.

"Well, that is where all the loonies go, right?"

Gordon didn't say anything this time.

“You're no fun. . . Anyways, what’re we waiting for?” Q asked, rising up on her tiptoes to glance around her street. Gordon didn’t reply, only barking out orders to the members of the GCPD that passed him.

What was once her quiet, dull neighborhood was now blaring with police sirens and splattered with red and blue lights. Several police cars and vans were parked just outside her house, some even being abandoned on her front lawn. Q watched the front door of the house as two men wheeled a body bag off on a stretcher. She saw her neighbors glancing warily out of the window, watching the scene unfold.

Q wondered what the press would say about this. How would the media react to one of Gotham's richest being murdered by his own blood?

Gordon pushed Q forward, towards a police car. He opened the door and was about to push the blonde in, until she leapt up and peered over the edge of the door.

“Hey, Mrs Dawson!” Q called, greeting her neighbor as if she wasn’t in handcuffs or being arrested. Mrs Dawson was an old woman who was now standing by her perfectly white picket fence, watching the whole ordeal with alarm. Q grinned at Mrs. Dawson, sending a polite nod her way. The woman paled, swallowing hard as she looked at Q, looked at the blood that was splattered across her shirt and neck. It had dampened her hair, as her blonde locks would occasionally have droplets of blood trickle onto the floor. The scarlet against her skin made its pale hue much more prominent and the splatter of blood a more vibrant and intense shade of deep red. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it? Shame there’s so much police around, though.”

Mrs Dawson looked like she was going to faint.

* * *

 

The drive in the police car was painfully silent. Neither of the police officers answered any of Q’s questions, or even paid her a second glance. They arrived at the precinct, and Q was hauled out of the car.

She was brought to a small room with a table in the centre, where she punctually sat. She casually slouched in her seat, her elbow resting on the table as she waited for someone to come in. They had removed Q’s handcuffs, and now Q was examining her blood-coated hands with lack of interest.

Eventually, Detective Gordon made his way in, and took a seat across from her.

“Why’d you do it?” He asked.

“Oh, no, Detective.” Q purred, straightening in her seat. “The question is, why didn’t I do it sooner?” Q laughed, throwing back her head and flattening her palms on the table. Once she was done, she pretended to wipe fake tears from her eyes.

“You murdered your neighbours, Alicia and Robert Johnson. Along with your father, Jeremy. As far as I know, you did it for no reason.”

“I did it for a reason, all right. You see, _Jimothy_ , there’s nothin' I hate more than liars. They were all liars. All the Johnson’s would do was fight. They would argue all goddamn day and night. They were supposed to be in love.”

Gordon didn’t say anything.

“They were both unfaithful. My old pops just had to get involved too, havin’ an affair with that bitch. He’s the reason why mom left, because of that stupid affair. He never even told me why - just let me believe that my own mother walked out on me because she hated me. You know - for a guy who used to be obsessed with having a spotless reputation, he sure wasn’t afraid of ruining it with some stupid fling with the next door.”

Gordon nodded grimly. “That doesn’t explain why you killed Robert.”

Q tilted her head, pushing back a strand of her blonde hair. “Robert came over and found my father dear and Alicia under the covers. Naturally, he and my dad started fightin'. I stopped them from fightin'. Things got a 'lil outta hand. Let’s leave it at that.” Q smiled sweetly, innocently watching the detective’s face. “That all you need?”

Gordon nodded.

Q began giggling uncontrollably.  

* * *

 

Back in the police cruiser Q went. Cuffed again and already feeling rather bored with the predicament she was in, Q rested her head against the window and watched the city as the car sped by. They drove for a while, and deep down, Q already knew where they were going.

Once they reached that old, iron gate branded with ‘Arkham Asylum’, Q’s heart rate was beginning to increase. Maybe it was from anticipation or fear - she didn’t know. The car rolled through the gates, and that large, grey building loomed above Q. She peered out the window, craning her neck to fully see the building that towered in the sky.

Q was questioning why she had stayed at the crime scene, why she let herself be caught. Perhaps she didn’t want to live a life on the run. Would it be better than a life behind bars?

Detective Gordon eventually travelled around the police car to open Q’s door, interrupting her thoughts. He promptly took her by the elbow and helped her oh-so-gracefully prance out of the backseat. She straightened her posture (or, straightened it as much as she could with her hands bound behind her back,) and examined the grounds. Leaves scampered across the floor, carried by the wind.

“It's a bit chilly, don't you think?” Q remarked, feigning a shiver.

The officer that was with Gordon made a grunt, and began trudging towards the building.

They brought Q to a long corridor, after undergoing several security checks where they confiscated any items found on her. (She was carrying a screwed up grocery list and a pack of chewing gum.)

There was a wall of metal bars on one side of her as she walked, revealing a common room of sorts, where men and woman sporting stripey outfits eyed Q with interest. Q grinned at each of them as she was dragged past, even winking at one who held eye contact with her the entire time.

They placed her in a temporary holding cell, where Q made herself comfortable, slumped against the wall. Detective Gordon was speaking to a petite woman with thick glasses. She was holding a clipboard with files stacked upon it. Probably Q’s files, from the shrink that her father had forced her to go to.

"You know, my dad used to work here." Q said to no one in particular, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. "I kinda wanted to do that do; be a psychiatrist. Even studied for it in high school."

Q looked up, loose strands of hair falling down the sides of her face, "Guess that dreams over now, eh?" She proceeded to laugh, the noise almost a high pitched squeal that echoed through out the room and caused silence to fall.

A woman cleared her throat and then walked in, carrying the same stripey dress Q had seen the other women in the asylum wearing. Q grimaced at the rough material, rubbing the fabric with her fingers. She slipped it on, using the wipes they provided her with to wash any blood away.

“Yeah,” Q heard detective Gordon say, glancing to the blonde who was darting her eyes around the small holding cell, “She’s been down to the station a few times - only for stealing cars, though. Nothing like this.”

Once the two were done talking, the woman looked to Q and nodded. Several men came and unlocked the door and escorted her out of the room.

“Oh, this is so exciting!” Q exclaimed, laughing giddily. “Where are we going?”

The men refused to reply, so Q reluctantly clamped her mouth shut as they travelled down the narrow corridors.

They brought Q to a small, windowless room with a lousy single bed pushed to the side. It was more of a prison cell than a room, but Q didn’t really expect much more. Q cleared her throat whilst examining the room with slight disgust. “How. . . Homely. . .” She commented, smiling weakly.

“Better get used to it,” One of the men said, before shutting the door. Q heard a metal click, and then she was left alone in the cell.

After sitting in the same spot for several hours, Q came to the conclusion that her cell was terribly boring. Without a window to gaze out of, Q found herself staring at walls without realising she was doing so. Just as she was about to get up to wander her small room, she heard metal groaning, then a heavy thud. A door. Then, her own door clicked open, revealing one of the men who had escorted Q to her permanent room.

“I hope you settled in well,” He said, in a gruff voice. “It’s time for you to meet the other inmates.”

“ _Great_.” Q chirped.

* * *

 

The inmates were as welcoming as Q had expected. As she was forced into the room, it fell completely silent with all eyes on Q. She cleared her throat, noticing that all of the tables were filled with strangers that were all ogling her.

Raising her chin, Q marched over to the table in the centre of the room and tapped a large, burly bald man on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” She cooed, smiling at the man. “Can I sit here?”

The bald man made a noise crossed between a ”Yes,” and a grunt. He promptly stood up, towering above the small blonde, who simply batted her eyelashes.

“Thank you,” Q said, reaching up to tap the man on the shoulder as she slid past him and sat in his now-vacant seat.

Once Q sat down, the people within the room began speaking once again, although Q was sure that the topic of most of their conversations was her. Q rested both elbows on the table, placing her chin in her palm whilst staring at the window that was across from her.

The blonde sensed movement beside her, so she inclined her head to the side, eyeing the man who had taken the seat next to her suspiciously.

“Name’s Terrance Smith.” He said, tilting his head and watching Q’s face. He had an oily face, riddled with tattoos, and greasy black hair.

“That’s nice.” Q deadpanned, turning to face the window again.

“Yes, it is. What’s your name?” He persisted, scooting further along the bench.

“Why’d you wanna know so bad?” Q questioned, not looking at the man.

He shrugged, leaning back. “Just curious.”

“Yeah, well, go be curious somewhere else.” Q bit, glaring at Terrance.

Terrance gripped Q’s upper arm, yanking her towards his face. “What’s a guy gotta do to learn a girl’s name?”

“Surely this isn’t the correct method.” Q remarked. She scowled at the man’s foul breath.

“You little bi-”

Q punched him in the face.

And it hurt.

One of Terrance’s hand went to cradle his eye, whilst the other swung out to whack Q. The blonde swiftly leaped back from the chair, holding her hand limply over her stomach. She winced, glancing down at it.

“Isn’t it supposed to hurt _you_ and not _me_?” She hissed, as guards started flooding the room.

Chaos erupted, and Q was pretty sure that she heard someone wildly hooting. Q backed away in the mass of people, who had for some reason all leapt up to escape the guards, who clearly weren’t even targeting them. Peeking through a gap between the scurrying inmates, Q noticed that Terrance and a large amount of other trouble-makers were being escorted out of the room by several guards. Before they exited the common room, one of them paused to bang his baton against the metal railings several times. The inmates stopped rushing around, all frozen on the spot.

“If this happens _ever_ again,” He bellowed, “you’ll all be locked in your cells for two weeks! Now sit the fuck down!”

Immediately, Q squabbled to get to an empty table, where she nursed her pulsing hand. It was slowly throbbing, but she bit down on her lip to stop it from wobbling.

”Hi there, stranger.” Q heard a gravelly voice say, causing her to look up. A ginger boy around her age had taken a seat at the table across from her, and was eyeing her fist with a broad grin. “I knew as soon as you threw that punch it was gonna hurt.”

Q raised a judgmental eyebrow.

“You punched with the flats of your fingers, instead of your knuckles.” He pointed out, still smiling.

“I’ll make sure to remember that next time.” said Q slowly. She began clenching and unclenching her fist experimentally, not paying attention to him.

He laughed, a cackle that made the rest of the inmates momentarily pause their conversations to send fearful looks their way. “ _Hopefully_ there won’t be a next time. An asylum isn’t exactly the. . . _ideal_ place to make enemies.”

Q wondered where the ideal place to make enemies was. “You do have a point,” Q informed him, turning her head to view the other inmates that were viciously glowering at her. She’d always been told to make a good first impression; perhaps punching the first person who interacted with her wasn’t a great start. Even if said person was a dick.

“If you’d actually thrown the punch correctly, I would’ve said it was pretty impressive.” He commented. He held a hand to his chest, watching the blonde with sincerity, “Me complimenting people is a rare thing, so you should feel fairly grateful.”

“Why, thank you.” Q said, finally looking back at him and smiling sweetly. After all, it wasn’t everyday someone addressed her not-so-excellent punching skills. He didn’t seem to notice her faux attempt at being flattered.

“What put you in here, then?” The redhead asked, propping his feet up on the bench and facing the other direction.

“I killed three people.”

The boy tilted his head towards Q, remaining expressionless. He spun around, facing Q once again. He flattened both hands on the table, now with a deranged grin. “How?” He asked eagerly, quirking his eyebrows as he said the monosyllable, clearly intrigued. He leaned forward, staring into Q’s eyes expectantly, like a child awaiting to be told a bedtime story.

“With a sledgehammer.” Q told him, examining her nails, uninterested.

He let out a chuckle. He straightened his back, nodding as if he was approving.

“I’m Jerome, by the way.” He said, winking whilst continuing to smile devilishly.

“Q.” The blonde said, preparing herself for _the_ question.

“Q?” Jerome repeated, frowning slightly.

“It’s a nickname.”  
"Well then, _Q._ ” Jerome said, broadly grinning and dipping his head menacingly. “ _Welcome to Arkham_."


	2. when are you being promoted to the president of his fan club?

Apparently, the little outburst that had occurred on Q’s first day in _Arkham_ had earned her and the rest of the inmates a day in solitude. It only meant that they weren’t allowed to exit their cells, and were individually served their meals. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t for the incessant crying of the woman in the cell next to Q’s and the crashing of the brute on the opposite wall. Q was certain that that woman had been crying for over two hours, for reasons Q had no idea.

“Would ya _please_ just _shut up_?” Q barked, exhaling sharply as she glared at the ceiling. A roar sounded from the room to her left, whilst a collection of sniffles came from her right. Q smiled softly, drumming her fingertips along the mattress of her bed. _Finally_ , she thought. _Silence_.

“It’s not my fault!” The woman sobbed on Q’s right, followed by a dull thump on the wall.

“Look, lady, I don’t wanna hear your excuses. I’m _trynna_ get my beauty sleep.” Q said, pity lacking in her voice. She turned on her mattress so she was laying on her side. The springs dug into her ribs and waist, but she ignored the sharp strikes of pain and let her hand dangle off the small cot onto the cold floor. She trailed circles into the concrete with her nails, the movement rhythmic and slow.

“B-but I can’t!” The woman wailed.

Q sighed, coming to a conclusion that any attempts to shut this lady up would be futile. “That’s a real shame, miss,” Q said, trying to muster up any sympathy in her voice. The woman began crying again, muttering incoherent syllables that Q couldn’t be bothered to comprehend.

* * *

Q woke up the next morning in one hell of a mood. She had not gotten much sleep that night, as the woman beside her had given up crying, and began unabatingly scratching against the wall. Q noted to suggest that the guards declaw her, since she was going at it all night.

Yawning widely, Q scanned the common room, realising she was one of the first few inmates to arrive. The room was mainly empty, save for a few patrolling guards and early-birds. She took a curl of her blonde hair, delicately twirling it as she took a seat in a squeaky, swirly chair.

“Good mornin’, sunshine!” A cheery voice sang. Q swivelled around in her seat, looking accusingly at the ginger in front of her.

“Huh,” Jerome chirped, tilting his head slightly. “I guess you’re not a morning person.”

“I’m not a _person_ person.” Q replied brightly, followed by a wide, malicious grin, like a cheshire cat.

A man with round glasses approached the duo, a grim expression on his face. “And who might you be?” He inclined to Q, the ghost of a smile resting on his cracked lips.

“This is Q - weird name, I know.” Jerome immediately answered, grinning at the older man.

The man nodded, almost in approval. Q remained expressionless, watching the man as if daring him to do something. They locked gazes, and Q sent him a bold wink. “Nice to meet you, Q.” He said. The man curtly nodded, then turned and slouched in a chair not far away, and began picking through a ragged magazine.

“I guess he’s not much for introductions,” Q remarked, peering over her shoulder at the stranger, before looking back at Jerome.

“That’s Sionis. He’s got a lot’a cash - the guy’s a millionaire.” Jerome said casually, his gaze darting around the room, which was slowly filling up with groggy looking inmates.

“So how’d he end up in here?” Q asked, the question provoked by boredom, not curiosity.

“He killed twenty five people.” Jerome told her, avidly leaning forward across the table, with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. “Just for fun.”

“When are you bein’ promoted to the president of his fan club?” Q teased in a bubbly, high pitched voice with a faint, playful smile.

“Hey, I’m merely praising him for his work. Real impressive, if you ask me.”

“I didn’t ask you.” Q raised an eyebrow.

“He can get you anything you want in here.” Jerome added, choosing to ignore Q’s previous comment.

“Like what?” Q asked, intrigued.

“Stuff the guards won’t let you have.” Jerome told the blonde, and left it at that. “Y’know, you’ve got a funny voice.” Jerome mentioned, letting out a short giggle. “Where’re ya from?”

“New Jersey.” Q said, nodding proudly. “We moved to Gotham when my dad got a job at this hell hole.”

“Really? Your old man worked at Arkham? D’you think I met him?”

“Who knows?” Q shrugged nonchalantly, not caring. Jerome leaned forward on the table once again, resting his elbow on the white surface with his chin in his palm. Q looked down to examine the table. There were splashes of colors, prominent against the bleak white. Q was pretty sure one of the stains was blood. She ran a finger along the table, raising it to study the dust she had collected.

“So, _Q_. What’s your _real_ name?” Jerome queried, smiling maniacally. Q looked from from her finger to Jerome, brushing the dirt off the tip of her finger and folding her arms on the table.

“Why’d you want to know?” Q shot back, tilting her head and letting her blonde hair tumble down her side.

Jerome shrugged. “No reason.” He assured. “Are you not gonna tell me?”

“Yep.”

Jerome pouted, and rested his chin in his palm again, whilst occasionally kissing his teeth.

After moments of silence, Q pulled her legs up onto her chair to sit cross-legged, her palms spread widely on the table. “What’d’ya do for fun ‘round here?” She asked vivaciously, with a childlike smile.

Jerome grinned menacingly.

* * *

 

Q and Jerome were hurrying down a dimly lit corridor, laughing uncontrollably like misbehaving school girls. Jerome stopped around a corner and yanked Q to his side, and the two couldn’t hide their grins as they stood, frozen with their backs to the wall and panting heavily.

“Are they still followin’ us?” Q asked Jerome, who was peering around the corner with a collection of files tucked under his arm.

“Nah,” Jerome confirmed, looking back at the girl. Her blood was rushing in her ears, the adrenaline still pumping. “We lost ‘em.” Jerome retrieved the files from under his arm and held them out in front of him. A single strand from his ginger hair had fallen loose, and was dangling down against his forehead.

“Harleen Quinzel, huh?” He read, almost mockingly.

“Don’t start.” Q immediately replied, resting her head against the wall and clenching her eyes shut.

“No - I like it. Kinda sounds like harlequin.”

“. . . like harlequin - I know.” Q finished Jerome’s sentence with him, both coming to the same conclusion at the same time. The blonde ran a hand down her face. “I was never a fan of the name _Harleen_.”

“That’s where the nickname comes in, then.” Jerome said, nodding. He twisted his lips to the side, as if considering something, then passed her records to Q.

She flipped it open, beginning to read. Q shook her head and muttered profanities at all of the nonsense they’d written about her. “D’you see this?” Q screeched, flinging the papers in Jerome’s face, who was busy digging through his own. She firmly pointed to a small line of text. “Violent outbursts? Since _when_?” Q flailed her arms in disbelief.

Jerome simply raised his eyebrows, glancing from Q to the writing several times.

“I bet it was that _goddamn_ Mrs Darson. She’s had it out for me since she saw me kick her stupid little cat when it was in the driveway. I’m tellin’ y-”

“Who gives a shit what they write about you in this? Most of it is all bullshit anyway.” Jerome spat, giving the papers back to Q, who grumbly closed the file and crossed her arms with the records dangling from her fingertips.

“You killed your mom?” Q read, peering over Jerome’s shoulder at the worn out papers.

“Yep.” Jerome confirmed, popping the ‘p’. He glanced at Q from the side, almost expecting her to blurt something out. She only tipped her chin and returned to her spot, leaning against the hard concrete.  

Becoming tiresome of the dull flickering of the overhead light, Q pushed off from the wall, slowly trailing her fingers along it as she walked to the nearest window, that was incredibly small. It was strange not to see her quiet neighborhood, but at the same time it was comforting for a new change of scenery. The few trees that were scattered around _Arkham_ ’s grounds were swaying due to the slight breeze.

“Enjoying the view?” Jerome questioned behind Q.

“Anything’s better than these ugly gray walls.” Q sighed, turning on her heel and facing the taller boy. He was holding the files behind his back. Q watched him intently, scanning his face, which was void of any emotion.

He pursed his lips. “Why didn’t you go with Harley?”

“Huh?” The monosyllable rang out in the hallway. The dim light cast long shadows along Jerome’s face, as he tipped his chin in thought. The silhouettes of the pair were barely moving, just watching each other expectantly.

“Your nickname’s Q - but it would make more sense if it was Harley.” Jerome clarified.

“True,” Q agreed, quirking her head to the right and nodding.

“What are you two doing over there? It’s past your curfew!” A voice called. Q snapped her head to where the sound originated from, just as a pool of blue light shone in the duo’s eyes. Q had to squint to spot the large, burly women with a greasy black hair pulled into a tight bun that came bustling down the hallway, her baton raised.

“Yikes.” Q breathed, her eyes fixed on the approaching guard.

“I’m pretty sure we can outrun him.” Jerome whispered to Q, who had somehow maneuvered himself so he was slightly in front of her. He discreetly tugged on the fabric of her dress.

“Jerome, that’s a _her_!” Q laughed. She spun around and took off, forcefully grabbing Jerome’s arm and yanking him along.

For the second time that day, the pair found themselves sprinting down a hallway away from a guard, unable to conceal their spirited laughter.  


End file.
